


Tightrope

by orphan_account



Series: Glass Cases [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Dark Sherlock, Dom Sherlock, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fingerfucking, M/M, Sexual Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome, Sub Irene, Sub John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2349473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Sherlock Holmes is an engineer and chemist. Last year, he kidnapped Irene Adler. Six weeks ago, he kidnapped John Watson. Irene and John are now his sex slaves.</p><p>Chapter 2 was written for Let's Write Sherlock's Challenge 19, as a gift to the three most recent commenters in this series (at the time): RedWulfGirl, Of_Titles_And_Names, Tallystar63.</p><p>THIS SERIES IS ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Anti-spy

On Monday evening, Sherlock answers Mycroft's call.

“Finally,” the elder sighs.

Two weeks ago, Mycroft left a voice message asking Sherlock about his involvement in the case of missing army veteran John Watson. Sherlock has since been ignoring his brother’s attempts at communication.

Tonight, however, Sherlock feels open to conversation. He blames this uncharacteristic affection-seeking behaviour on the ordeal that was his weekend. 

“You’re not supposed to spy on me,” Sherlock delivers with carefully controlled venom. He is still annoyed, after all. He throws his weight down onto his favoured chair and leans back, black dressing gown falling open. He spreads his unbent legs apart, bare heels touching the floor. His T-shirt and pyjama trousers are in the same rust colour.

“I promise I am not tracking your movements, Sherlock. I just have... certain protocols in place.”

During Sherlock's drug addiction recovery program four years ago, he invited Mycroft to a couple of therapy sessions. The addict was emphatic that trust and freedom were paramount to him. He made his brother promise never to use MI6 resources to meddle in his life. Should Mycroft wish to interact with Sherlock, the former must do so without tapping into his official capacity. Mycroft had agreed.

Trust and freedom continue to be immensely important to Sherlock, although it may be more accurate to say that his greatest concerns now are _privacy_ and freedom. Sherlock simply can’t have the British government noticing that he buys enough food for a household of three.

The younger Holmes exhales, exasperated. He pushes a question past clenched jaws: “And what do these protocols entail?”

“I had only arranged to be alerted in case your name turns up in the radar of police. Or hospital.”

Sherlock does not respond. Alternative scenarios begin flashing in his mind. In one particularly dreaded scenario, he imagines that Mycroft has deduced his kidnappings.

“I didn't gather or look at information to which the Met did not have access,” Mycroft adds.

Sherlock recalls the two-week-old voicemail -- the exact words, the tone. He realises that Her Majesty’s Secret Serviceman has nothing more than a suspicion. All that Mycroft seems to have seen from CCTV footage were three John Watson lookalikes, separately entering and leaving Sherlock’s flat through the front entrance on Baker Street, around the time the army veteran allegedly went missing.

Sherlock's tension eases. His mouth begins to form a smile.

“Nevertheless,” Mycroft breaks the silence after several seconds, “will you tell me why the Met is of the opinion that you are involved in a high-risk missing person case?”

Besides finding two body doubles for John Watson, the other key to Sherlock’s plan lay in tampering with the CCTV camera covering his building's rear exit -- the one that leads out onto Siddons Lane. By controlling this camera, he could have had any number of John Watson lookalikes come and go multiple times without detection. Sherlock had ensured that the only available CCTV footage would be of the front entrance, and that it would show an equal number of arriving John Watson doppelgangers and leaving John Watson doppelgangers.

Sherlock assumes, correctly, that Mycroft knows that one of the three John Watsons in the footage was the real one. "All right," Sherlock begins, "if you must know," he takes a deep breath, "I have..." He hopes he sounds sufficiently embarrassed when he says, "...a triplet kink." He pauses, suppressing a grin. "Don’t be alarmed. It's to do with sex."

“Sex doesn't alarm me,” Mycroft replies evenly. It is true; sex doesn't alarm him. But hearing about his brother's explicit exploits makes him incredibly uncomfortable. He especially does not want to ever remember learning of Sherlock’s adventures as a cocaine whore.

“How would you know?” Sherlock smirks, and he’s sure that Mycroft can tell. “It’s like this: I had one of them at each end, and the third had me in his mouth.”

“For the love of!” Mycroft interrupts.

Sherlock grins. “Captain Watson left the flat after our… engagement. He was safe, sound, and completely sated. I have no idea what happened to him afterwards.”

"What time did he leave?"

"I can't possibly remember the specific--"

"There's no footage of him leaving. It's a different person that leaves."

"John went out through the back alley. You know the camera there is always malfunctioning."

Mycroft pauses. "You didn't say any of this to the police."

“I’m sure you know the captain is a respectable man. It wouldn't do well to disgrace his memory by revealing his private proclivities.”

“And if he’s still alive?”

“I sent an anonymous tip to put the Met back on his trail,” Sherlock lies. “I reported seeing him walking by Dorset Square in the wee hours of the next morning. I think that's the direction he would have gone. I suppose nothing came of the tip, seeing as they still haven’t found him.”

Mycroft remains doubtful, but for now he pushes his four theories on the John Watson case to the back of his mind. He decides to leave Sherlock in peace for the moment. Anyway, the Met appears to have already cleared Sherlock of suspicion.

"Just... keep your nose clean, brother mine," Mycroft says in closing.

What Sherlock hears from the parting remark is "stay safe". He ends the call without replying, and allows the two unsaid words to swaddle him for a whole minute.

Tomorrow he has to return to work.


	2. Tuesday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is tense. He tries to distract himself with his two pets.

On Tuesday, Sherlock is distracted. During the drive to work, he frequently glances sideways and over his shoulder, expecting to find someone trailing him. He nearly hits a car in front of him, once, when he brakes too late on the approach to traffic lights. Still, he'd rather look out the front passenger's side window or in the rear-view mirror, than through the windscreen. When his eyes are on the road in front of him, it is impossible to ignore the glinting ring on his right hand, on the steering wheel.

Throughout the workday, he catches himself staring blankly at stacks of papers, pot plants, and even sections of bland wallpaper. Occasionally he gazes vacantly at people's faces, as he tries to discern if they could have been part of his abduction. "Are you all right?" three of his co-workers ask him. His distraction is annoying, but he can't help it.

In any case, nothing notable happens.

***

That evening, Irene wakes up in a long-sleeved, floor-length dress, made completely out of fine mesh cloth. The dress is see-through everywhere, and Irene isn't wearing any undergarments. She is standing against the far wall of the sex room, with her wrists shackled and her ankles free. Sherlock hasn't used this wall since John arrived.

John is waking up now, too. Naked apart from a black T-shirt, he is bent over the bondage table, with his arse exposed at the edge. His wrists and ankles are bound. He hasn't been tied down in this direction before; he is facing the door, and he can't see Irene at the wall behind him.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room, two feet from the bondage table. He is naked, but not erect. He has been waiting for his pets to stir. Now that they're both conscious, he says, "There you are. Good evening." He immediately starts stroking his cock. He continues tugging at himself as he walks towards Irene. Without stopping his hand movements, he kisses her on the mouth, deeply.

Irene kisses him back, hard. Sometimes she can tell what S’s disposition is, based on how he dresses her for a scene. The gown she’s wearing right now exudes flirtation; the delicateness of it suggests affection. Add to this the passionate kiss on the mouth, and Irene would almost say her dom is feeling vulnerable. She wonders what happened over the weekend that kept S from her and John for two nights.

Sherlock leaves open-mouthed, breathy, wet kisses down Irene's chin and neck, and continues past the neckline of her dress, down to her right breast. He closes his lips around her nipple, and then pokes at it, through the cloth, with his tongue. She hums. Sherlock alternately licks, sucks and nibbles. Eventually he moves to the other nipple and gives it the same attention. Irene moans intermittently.

Sherlock lets go of his cock, and places his hands on Irene’s hips. He pulls up her skirt, inch by inch. By the time Irene’s crotch is exposed, Sherlock’s hands are filled with bunched-up mesh cloth. He looks up at his sub from her breast level, then slowly moves his head down to her pussy without breaking eye contact. She breathes hard. Still looking her in the eye, and now kneeling, he says, “I’ve missed you, you know. It was simpler when it was just you and me.” He kisses her chastely at the top of her cleft. She closes her eyes.

He lets go of her dress, and then stands.

“No!” Irene blurts out, her eyes opening. “I mean, please don’t go, sir. Please don’t stop.”

“I’d love to put my cock inside you, to push again and again until you cry out, but I think you’re not exactly tight just now.” He smirks.

Irene begins to doubt her earlier assessment of his mood.

“Which is why John is here.” Sherlock turns around to face John’s exposed arse. John braces himself. Sherlock grabs a small bottle of lube from a drawer under the table. He applies some onto his fingers, and then inserts a digit into John's arse. The intrusion gives John a jolt, but he tries to relax. Soon, Sherlock adds a second finger, and then a third. He stretches John with nothing more than mechanical precision. Not once does he stimulate John’s prostate.

Irene wishes she could regain S’s attention. She bitterly thinks it’s not her fault that an extra-large dildo was lodged inside her for two whole days.

Sherlock pulls his fingers out of John and replaces them with his lubed penis. He sighs when his length is fully enveloped in his pet’s tight warmth.

John groans, which elicits a surprisingly angry “Quiet!” from his captor. “If you produce another sound, I will make you hurt."

Sherlock glances over his shoulder and addresses Irene, “I want you to talk to me as though it is you I am fucking.” He doesn’t wait for her response. He faces forwards, closes his eyes, and then begins to pump his cock in and out of the arse in front of him.

“Oh, yes, that’s it, sir,” Irene starts, uncertain.

“Do better. Beg,” Sherlock orders.

“Harder, sir, please.” She forces herself to moan.

“Good. Keep going.” Sherlock drills into John harder.

John wants to weep. S has never used him like this before. In previous sessions, John has had to accept that S can do whatever he fancies with John's body. But in all of those instances, S seemed to revel in John's struggle, inevitable surrender, pain and pleasure. Tonight, John does not matter at all. He tries to keep his emotions in check. He isn’t getting aroused.

Irene goes on. “Yes, please, pound into me so hard that I’ll feel your cock inside me for days. Oh, mark me, use me. I am all yours.”

Sherlock buries his cock in John's arse a few more times, and then he comes inside John. When he pulls out, his juice drips slowly down John’s thighs.

Sherlock gives Irene a small smile. It leaves his face quickly. He closes the gap between himself and Irene, and whispers in her ear, “Thank you, dear.” He licks her earlobe, while his left hand lifts her skirt once more. His right hand reaches for her clitoris. She gasps.

“Let me hear you, Irene. No words.” He rubs her clit in circles, and then up and down. She whines. When he adds pressure to his touches, she shrieks. She thrusts her pelvis forward, but Sherlock shakes his head, so she stops. She endures his pace, and resumes her mewling.

“Good girl,” Sherlock praises, and his fingers rub her clit faster and harder. She groans. She is breathing quickly now, and loudly. She wails when her orgasm builds, and she tries to ask S for permission to come, by whimpering repeatedly like a tiny puppy.

“Go ahead, darling. Come for me.” Sherlock smiles. Irene spills onto her thighs.

Sherlock releases his hold on her dress. The hem drops to her toes. He ogles the come dripping from her vagina. “Beautiful. I almost want to take you with me outside. Wearing something like that. I’ll fuck you in public, of course. Have both my come and yours dripping down your perfect legs.”

Irene slows her breathing. At the mention of “outside”, she thinks of Kate. Which doesn’t mean that the prospect of being displayed as S’s property is unappealing to her.

“I don’t think now is a good time, though,” Sherlock adds. He heads for the door, but halfway across the room, he pivots to face his subjects again. “Why isn’t this working?” he asks them through clenched teeth. His voice betrays barely restrained irritation. Brow furrowed, he carelessly ruffles his curls with both hands. Irene and John are staring at him, unsure of what he’s talking about.

When Sherlock continues, he yells, not deigning to hide his exasperation any longer. “Do you have any idea how unnerving it is to resort to something that’s always been reliable, and then discover that it isn't working?!” His gaze pierces through his abductees’ terrified eyes. “What do I need to do?!” He steps closer to John, who flinches.

“I feel like I want to…” Sherlock glares at his own hands, at his fingers that are tense, splayed, and slightly curved, as if he's trying to grasp something. “…penetrate someone, but…” Slowly, yet without losing any tension, he balls his hands into fists. “…not with my cock or a sex toy. Instead, with…” His face relaxes; he appears to have realised something. He unrolls his fingers, and drops his arms loosely at his sides. He looks back up at his slaves. “…a soldering iron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's not going to do it to Irene or John!


End file.
